Nine Times Six Equals FortyTwo
by La Cidiana
Summary: Brock isn't having a good day. First, Team Rocket demolishes Ash’s house. Then, Tracey drags them into a multidimensional journey through space. And Gary is the president of the galaxy? Learn the true meaning of life, the universe, and everything!


9x6=42

*~*~*

**Summary:** Brock is *not* having a good day. First, Jessie and James demolish Ash's house. Then, Tracey drags Ash and him through a multidimensional journey through the universe. And Gary is the president of the galaxy?! Read, and learn the true meaning of life, the universe, and everything!

**Rating:** PG-13 for some violence, careless and frequent use of profanity, some adult themes, mentioning and/or underage/overage consumption of alcohol, and for putting gullible minds at risk of losing their sanity.

**Author's Note:** This is a Pokémon take on Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Duh. :P Anyway, hope you enjoy!!!! Dayam, I LOOOOOVE those fine works of literature..... The whole first part is taken from the book, word-for-word, but the rest is only based on it with some obvious references. (The first part OF the italicized section, not the whole section itself. Hopefully, you won't notice the change of writing sophistication and style...) References to some other animes, movies, etc, and Harry Potter, (SaneLunatic, if you're reading this, I mentioned you in this!!!! XD) And in her words: Read, REVIEW, and rejoice!

**BIG NOTE: **I'll probably never finish this.... *sigh* Don't be surprised if I NEVER, EVER update this again.... but review anyway!!! ^^;; Tell me if I'm on the right track....maybe you'll inspire me. XD

~_In Memory of Douglas Adams. So long, and thanks for all the books.~_

*~*~*

Book One: The Hitchhiker's Pokedex to the Galaxy

*~*~*

_Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun._

_Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea._

_This planet has--or rather had--a problem, which was this; most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy._

_And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches._

_Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans._

_And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small café in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything._

_Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever._

_This is not her story._

_Nor is this the story of that stupid catastrophe._

_In fact, this story pertains little to the journeying of Arthur Dent, whose name of course is of no importance whatsoever. Many have heard the chronicling of his travels within and without he universe along with Ford Prefect, but I'm positive that you know that already._

_For those of you who do not know, it involved at least one demolition of Earth, _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, one Babel fish, several references to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal, two fjord awards, and of course, towels._

_You didn't understand that? Good. You're officially sane._

_In any case, the story that I am about to throw upon your poor, susceptible mind somewhat follows the timeline of events, (if indeed you can chronicle time travel), in the wholly remarkable journey that took place soon after the Vogons destroyed Earth to make way for a bypass. Of course, this makes perfect sense, because the events themselves took place in a parallel universe._

_This universe, however, was created and still exists in the collective minds of fanboys and fangirls. These poor, gullible souls are born with a certain impulse that gives them a certain craving for knowledge; to find the _cause _of life, the universe, and everything._

_Of course, not even actual and elusive CREATOR of life, the universe, and everything knows why the hell he did it in the first place. All he is able to remember is that he had recently bought a digital watch. Because of this lack of information, the Chosen Ones are overwhelmed by possibilities and are forced to immerse themselves in crazes, fads, obsessions, and the works. One example is a boy who, in fact, lives in the Parallel Universe, and who was so overwhelmed by the voices in his head that his mind was permanently scarred for life. His prime ambition is now to enslave and then release small creatures in the hokiest ways possible. He saved the world several times, but that is only due to pure dumb luck and some poem that a bird called Lugia wrote several thousand years ago after he had gotten drunk at the town pub and his wife had kicked him out of the house for rambling about being the beast of the sea._

_Other cases of this trauma, however, involve corporate-run soap operas that, if left to go on for a profitable space of time, would end on August 7, 3089._

_The Days of Our Lives is one of these._

_Another one is based on the musings and controversial, (not to mention profitable), marketing of the ideas given by an Earthman named Satoshi Tajiri. The name of this idea, or cult as it has now become, is _Pokemon. _Pocket-Monsters, or, by the Islamic reckoning, "little yellow rodents who convert our children into Judaism and use the death call of 'Pika, pika!' "_

_To others, however, it translates into a medium by which they are allowed to stare, entranced, at one of the Japanese, (more commonly known as "squinty-eyed), characters. This certain entity is considered to be a "hottie" by some, and a God by others. He is the main focus of this story, and for those of you fanboys and fangirls, this tale will be Gymshippy, Egoshippy, Diamondshippy, and Eldershippy. How the hell you people remember these is not my problem. I'm only the narrator._

_But I must refrain from being a narrator any longer, as you now seem prepared for the story to unfold. Like any story, it begins simply._

_It begins with a book._

*~*~*

The book was rather thick, unremarkable in his uncovered appearance and yet awe inspiring. This can be explained by simply stating that it had been written by J.K. Rowling, it was over seven-hundred pages long, and it had just gone on sale the night before. Twelve o'clock A.M., to be perfectly exact.

Incidentally, the unkempt, ruffled adolescent who was now laying in bed with his head resting on the book, drool dripping out the side of his mouth and snoring loud enough to wake the high prince of the planet Zagnar, had been there to buy it. First in line, at twelve o'clock P.M..... the day before it even came out. Even more intriguing is that he had read it all in exactly 12.83746 hours, only stopping for the occasional bathroom--and drink--break.

He guessed correctly that he was having a particularly nasty hangover as his alarm clock began to ring and he blearily opened his eyes, staring up at it.

He vaguely wondered why his clock had turned into the Goblet of Fire overnight until the cup finally disappeared and he was able to see the numbers that were beginning to smile and wave at him.

10:30

However, it took until 10:33 for this to actually get through his head and register in his mind.

"Shiiiiiiiiit...." Was the first, immoral word of the day. As he rolled over, he somehow managed to bring his hand to his head and not to the sleep button. He suspected that he had already smacked it down several times already, but he didn't want to waste energy on trying to remember.

"The hell was I doing sleeping...?" His speech was slightly slurred as he asked himself the question. If the headache hadn't been so bad, he probably would have been surprised when he yawned and the breath that wafted up to his nose smelled slightly of alcohol.

He thought a moment, as blurred visions of people dressed up in weird costumes and bottles slowly bubbled up through his deadened memory.

Duh. He had "celebrated" with some instant friends about the release of the book. Wait--was that for _getting_ the book, or for _finishing_ it...? Why the hell had he been so happy about the book in the first place? How had they GOTTEN the beer?! He suddenly paused. Was there any left, and where was it?

His discombobulated mind haphazardly swam through similar trains of thought as he made his way down the stairs and somehow managed to stumble into the kitchen. Everything seemed to have been cleaned, except for some cold pancakes that he instinctively knew had been left out for someone else.

Damn. He had missed breakfast... Heck, he had missed _making_ breakfast. Great. Now Delia would hate him...

His regrets were interrupted by the necessity to wipe new drool from his chin as he began to eye the pancakes hungrily. He had been drinking yesterday, for sure, but not eating.

His eyes darted around the room as he attempted to stalk towards the much-needed victuals and grab a quick bite without anyone noticing. However, stealth does not involve crashing into a chair and sliding on the squeaky-clean floor with even squeakier socks and finding yourself lying on the floor with a twisted ankle and a crick in your neck, as he soon found out.

The inevitable footsteps were soon heard as the new personage slid to a halt at the kitchen door. "Who's--?!" The boy then stared down at the figure who resembled a starved caveman who had just come home empty-handed from a chase after a wild buffalo.

"Brock!?" Ash's eyes boggled as he stared down at his friend. "Where--_when_ did _you_ wake up?!"

"Ten-thirty, in hell. Ask my goblet," Brock suddenly grinned lopsidedly, still a bit woozy from the past day's events. "I smell like motor oil."

The other boy sniffed the air lightly. "Uh... damn, you do..." His eyes blinked several times before they narrowed. "You Harry Potter geeks seriously freak me out, you know that?"

"Mr. Coffee knows how to dance," Brock was still grinning, staring at the recently used coffee maker that truly wasn't doing anything.

Ash sighed, a bit disgruntled that _he_ had to be the mature one for once as he dragged Brock upwards and plopped him into the nearest chair. He turned around and began to microwave some pancakes that had been in the fridge all along. He paused a moment. "You snuck in through the window, didn't you?"

"Yup."

"After having been at some crazed convention all night?"

"Yup."

"And having met a girl?"

"Etha. Very nice. She got high on chocolate and kept on saying, 'Won ten tod noitcifnaf nioj.'"

"And having met a beer bottle?"

"Miller light. The sixth one didn't seem so light, though..."

"...and you're seventeen."

"I'm pretty sure... Yeah, I think so."

"_Not_ twenty-one."

"Only on that fake I.D. they gave me."

Pause.

"My mom's gonna kill you, grill you, and serve you up with a dash of Cholula sauce."

"I am aware of that."

"You sober now?"

Brock winced as he rubbed his head. "Somewhat."

"Good," Ash sighed as he finished zapping the pancakes and shoved them in front of Brock on the table. "Eat these. If you don't get something in your stomach soon, it looks as if you'll probably--"

But Brock was already eating, tearing off gigantic pieces and shoveling them into his mouth with his hands. The pancakes somehow tasted like the best things he had ever eaten.

"--starve to death," Ash finished as Brock fairly inhaled the the meager breakfast like someone who is inhaling something which they particularly enjoy to inhale on a good day for inhaling things. You have a poisoned mind to think what you just thought. If you _didn't_ think what you think you were supposed to have just thought, then you were probably thinking ahead of time of what you think I was trying to get you to think of. (Just a thought.)

Brock took his last mouthful and looked expectantly up at Ash. "Seconds...?"

"Sorry," Ash took the dish and dumped it in the sink without even rinsing it.

"What about those...?" Brock motioned towards the other pancakes on the table, as his eyes began to resemble those of a Charizard looking down at a juicy, plump Rattata.

"Oh," Ash said nonchalantly. "Those are for Mr. Mime when he gets back with my mom." He glanced down at his digital watch. "You have a couple of hours to get something acceptable on and get that stench off your breath."

"Acceptable...?" Brock's eyes slowly wandered down towards his clothes as he suddenly realized that he was decked out in all kinds of Harry Potter merchandise. The numerous badges and buttons that had been pinned all over his shirt, however, only barely hid the stains and spots on it that had been caused by liquids which he didn't quite want to remember.

"Oh," he managed to squeak out weakly, as he wondered why he had ever wanted to get into this mess. He had been so intoxicated, in fact, that he couldn't even remember if it was Ron or Dumbledore who had died... or was it someone else...? Oh, right. Crookshanks.

Brock decided to change the subject away from his only obsession that didn't involve Jenny or Joy. "Where did your mom go, anyway?"

"The Pallet Office of something or other," Ash yawned. There was a knock from the front of the house, and he continued to talk as he walked towards the door. "Something about a demolition."

"Oh," Brock continued to stare at Mimey's breakfast, his mind battling between the possibilities of getting up or spending the rest of his life as an inanimate vegetable. He had just chosen the latter when he heard the loud, defeaning yell that echoed through the house, and which was also the start of the remarkable mess of events to come.

"YOU'RE GONNA TEAR DOWN MY _HOUSE?!?!?!"_

*~*~*

The boy stared down at the small, black object in his hand with an extremely worried expression on his face. It wasn't the actual object that was worrying him, however, but the fact that the object was, at the moment, blinking its red light on the front. The boy sighed, shaking his head and brushing back his hair as he put it back into his pack.

Of course, the boy wasn't really a boy. To be more specific; he was not descended from an ape at all, and hadn't even been born on Earth. He had the looks and mannerisms of any regular seventeen-year-old, aside for the fact that his clothes and hairdo were just _slightly_ out of style. This is due to the fact that he had stayed on Earth for fifteen years, wearing the disguise of any regular seventeen-year-old the whole time. He was, in reality, thirty-five Earth-years old, and had traveled all the way there from the great publishing company of Ursaring Minor, and before that, from a small planet in the vicinity of Beetlejuice. What he actually _did_ for the publishing company of Ursaring Minor was help put together the prestigious and universally known _Hitchhiker's Pokedex to the Galaxy. _His primary job was to do illustrations, but he had recently taken up the job of doing short, to-the-point editorials about restaurants in the poorer sections of the galaxy.

Then, he had been assigned to the little-known planet known as Earth. Not even the most literally talented of the Editor-In-Chiefs of the _Pokedex_ were able to accurately--or even come close to--pronouncing his Beetlejuician name. And so, he had done some quick research and come up with the totally inconspicuous title of Tracey Sketchit.

Obviously, the research had been exceedingly rapid.

That was before he got stuck on the planet itself. Now, his huge, detailed articles and illustrations of the Earth had somehow grown into a kind of passionately written _Encyclopedia Galactica _in its entirety. He had been a bit disgruntled when the higher ranks of the _Pokedex_ had decided to condense his write-up down to a more practical size, but now, his primary objective was to get off of the rock before the inevitable catastrophe that was in the process of creeping up upon the Earthmen finally occurred.

He had a list of people whom he would somehow save, which looked somewhat like this:

1. My towel  
2. My sketchbook  
3. My notepad  
4. My Hitchhiker's Pokedex to the Galaxy  
5. My other sketchbook  
6. My unused sketchbooks  
7. My other unused sketchbooks  
8. Professor Oak  
9. Ash  
10. Misty  
11. A random bum off the street  
12. My deodorant  
13. Alcohol  
14. Anyone  
(The above had been crossed out and had been quickly replaced with:)  
14. Anyone except for Brock  
15. Satan  
16. Not Brock, even if he's the only one left alive

Tracey glanced down at his list one more time, nodding decisively. _That looks just about right..._ He then checked his pack once more to be perfectly sure. _Towel, sketchbook, notepad, _Pokedex_, other sketchbooks, unused sketchbooks, other unused sketchbooks... _He looked down with his eyes narrowed. _Now, what am I missing...?_

He suddenly clapped a hand to his forehead in realization and ran to the kitchen. _Where _does_ Professor Oak keep his hard drinks...? _He began rummaging through the shelves under the laboratory sink before he paused. _Where IS he, anyway? I haven't seen him all morning... _He frowned. The Professor was the most important human to save from the fate of the planet, but if _that_ didn't work...

Tracey grabbed his backpack and ran out the door towards Ash's house.

Strangely, or perhaps not so strange because he wasn't an Earthman, he didn't wonder why the heck a large, reddish bulldozer was in front of it.

*~*~*

_Honey... I'm really very sorry for having to put you through all of this, raising our son alone solely on your meager inheritance from your great, great, great grandfather whom you had never even known, while I went off to go take over the world and all..._

No. That didn't sound right...

_Sweetheart! I've been worried SICK about you! I've never stopped thinking of you, ever since the day I cruelly abandoned you and took over our bank accounts--_

That wasn't any better.

_None of the other women I've met during our separation compares to your--_

Definitely not.

_You want me to pay you back for the diamond-studded earrings I took?_

Very tactful.

_I'm truly sorry. I was very stressed, you know? The doctor told me that getting away from the family and taking over my mother's crime organization would be good for my heart._

My doctor was named Dr. Psychopath.

_.....Being with you sure beats training Mewtwo!_

Maybe a Humphrey Boggart line...?

_Here's lookin' at you, kid._

If he turned the air conditioning down and he had some kind of blanket...

_I see married people._

....Lame.

Giovanni Sakaki Demoni, high leader of Team Rocket, ambitious soon-to-be dictator of the world, part of a long line of mobsters and mafia godfathers, a millionaire who was about to inherit many more billions, whom only companion was his Persian, was going on a date.

With his wife.

Who hated his slimy guts.

And he was about to tell her something very disturbing--at least to _his_ mind.

Giovanni began to sweat as he shuffled his weight nervously, adjusting his tie. He was standing just outside of the _Gato Estupido _hotel and restaurant. (Actually, the name had been an experiment of some corporate restaurant owners, who wanted to find out how many people who attended their establishments did not, in fact, know Spanish.) It was strange for him to be nervous, even if he _was_ on the wanted list of practically every city from Brussels to Timbuktu to Tokyo to New York. He was usually the "Bwahahaha, you'll never catch me, you pathetic fools," kind of supervillan, but of course, that wasn't when he was staring thirteen years of abandonment straight in the face.

Which was when he realized that he _was_ staring at her straight in the face.

".......," she was silent, her brown eyes narrowed.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

".....Let's go in, shall we...?" Giovanni didn't know how she had gotten there so quickly, and frankly, he didn't care. He was already having enough trouble just trying to smugly smile his trademark evil smirk, which was coming off as the insane grin of a psychopath.

"......," she remained silent, even as she pushed past him and stomped off into the restaurant.

Giovanni couldn't help but stare at her a few moments, blinking, before he slowly walked off after her.

Skipping many uncomfortable details about seating and smart-aleck waiters who were then rewarded with Giovanni's well known wrath, him and his date ended up next to the window with a view over the harbor. Giovanni was still muttering something about not having a more "private" table, and was looking around furtively for cops when the woman finally spoke.

"What do you want?" Her voice was rougher, more gruff than usual.

"Nothing, nothing," Giovanni attempted to smile sweetly this time. He had had so little practice during his lifetime that he failed miserably, and _now_ came off as an evil smirk. "Is there anything wrong with husband and wife going out for something to eat?"

"....we've been separated for thirteen years."

"And what does that matter?"

"I've been seeing other people."

"What do _they_ matter?"

"You don't just call someone up after thirteen years and ask them if they'd like to spend an afternoon on the town."

"Would you have preferred for me to call and tell you that we were finally divorcing?"

"Yes."

Giovanni grit his teeth from behind his lips, struggling to control his explosive temper.

"Well....?" Delia's eyes continued to narrow into slits. "Is _that_ what this is all about?"

"No," his voice was icy.

"Then why the hell am I here?!" she fumed, two seconds away from getting up and leaving.

"There _is _a valid reason, don't you worry," Giovanni smiled fakely.

"Then what is it?!"

"Erm..." It was strange that Giovanni, being the cold, cruel-hearted soul that he was, suddenly began to sweat as he tried to find the softest way possible to break the news to her. "Well, Delia... You remember--I presume--how you had to visit the Pallet Office of Construction this morning...?"

"How'd you--?!" Delia's jaw dropped and then came back up to her lip, tightening. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Well... I.... I'm the one who put in the order to demolish it."

Pause.

"WHAT?!" Delia stared at him in shock.

"I _am_ the owner in name of the house and everything, but--!!!!" He grabbed her small hands into his larger ones from across the table before she could get up. "--then I realized that I've--" He took a deep breath, and said, as quick as he could.  
"--alreadycausedyouenoughpainandsorrowsoIdecidednottogothroughwithit."

Delia blinked at the evil man, registering the rushed sentence in her mind. "Erm....."

"Delia," Giovanni took the biggest breath of his life. "I--I--I--I--I--I....."

"Well, spit it out!" Delia's eyes were still wide, even as she said it.

Giovanni took another, deeper breath, and cringed, as if he was about to speak pure poison.

"I'm sorry."

Delia stared.

"For everything."

Delia gawked.

"Even Ash."

Delia's eyes widened.

"And the Pokedex."

Another pause.

"What Pokedex?" she suddenly blinked.

"You know," Giovanni continued to wince as he uncomfortably shifted his weight in his chair. "The black Pokedex I stole from you in the middle of the night."

"I've never owned a Pokedex."

"You haven't?" Giovanni began to sweat again.

"No."

"One with the words 'Don't Panic' inscribed on the--"

"I've NEVER OWNED A POKEDEX IN MY _LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" _She suddenly exploded, her eyes filled with rage.

"Alright, very well then...." Giovanni's eyes widened as the hand in his right pants pocket tightened its grip on the very object that Delia was screaming about. "You have--"

"--never--"

"--owned a Pokedex."

"Yes..." She smiled strangely and leaned back in her chair, relaxing.

Giovanni blinked and was wondering how exactly he would get the conversation back into the romantic, 'I'm sorry,' mode when he heard the waiter's voice.

"Would you like something to drink, si--"

"Vodka, on the rocks."

"Right... and you, ma'a--"

"Orange juice."

"Alright, then I'll--"

"It's fresh, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then I'll have that," Delia smiled strangely again and looked back towards Giovanni as the waiter left. "As you were saying...?"

"Erm... Well, I was wondering if maybe... well, ah--"

"Spit it."

"....nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

"No. It's raining," she scowled at this. "Some truck driver at the flower shop kept on ranting about how much it rained yesterday."

"Oh."

Giovanni was losing more and more hope, as every topic and conversation that he brought up seemed to fail in perking Delia's interest. He was just about to desperately ask her if she thought Bill Gates was insane or not when the lights went out.

*~*~*

**Ugh. A dud end to a chapter. . Like I said, chances are that I'll never finish this, so..... REVIEW WHILE YOU CAN!!!! ^_^**


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